Sunday, October 3, 2010

The highlight of this weekend's New York Times Book Review is Dan Chiasson's highly entertaining review of The Best American Erotic Poems, a new anthology of humpy verse edited by David Lehman. After calling John Updike's "Fellatio" "perhaps the worst poem ever written on any subject," Chiasson gleefully quotes the poem: "It is beautiful to think / that each of these clean secretaries / at night, to please her lover, takes / a fountain into her mouth.” But Chiasson teases us with his description of the dirtiest poem in the anthology, W.H. Auden's "The Platonic Blow," which Chiasson can only call "is the dirtiest verse written since Rochester — I can’t even talk about it here."

So how dirty is it, really?

It is really, really, really, really dirty. Like a Penthouse Forum letter, except in lively verse, and with no women. It's sort of great, and also sort of cheesy and awful, and also occasionally hilarious. ("'Shall I rim you?' I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.") We feel compelled to reprint the entire thing, just because we never had any idea that W.H. Auden wrote an unbelievably filthy poem about an anonymous blow job.

According to the editor's note, Auden wrote the poem in 1948, and copies were circulated among friends and fans for years, before Ed Sanders (of the Fugs) printed an unauthorized version in 1965. Auden publicly denied authorship, which is why we can reprint this without permission and with impunity (as does the anthology, which doesn't include Auden's poem on its copyright page). Enjoy!

The Platonic Blow by W. H. Auden

It was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown; Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind, I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.

Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak. I couldn't move. I didn't know what to say. In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak "Will you come to my room?" Then a husky voice, "O.K."

I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy He told me his story. Present address: next door. Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois. Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.

He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong. His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.

And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart. I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh. His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there. I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair. I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way: Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt. And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away. Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two, It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand, Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do. And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size. Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick, A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.

I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze. I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob. I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees. I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.

But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.

I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown Trunk against white shorts taut around small Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down. I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.

The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.

The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man, A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth. Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.

Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs, The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear, Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs, Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.

We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch, All fact contact, the attack and the interlock Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.

Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine Person between and closed on it tight as I could. The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine. Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.

I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed. Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.

Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.

I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.

Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed. Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick, But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.

"Shall I rim you?" I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent. Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.

Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal. It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin. His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.

His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy. Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked, Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.

I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.

I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.

Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head, With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove. He thrilled to the trill. "That's lovely!" he hoarsely said. "Go on! Go on!" Very slowly I started to move.

Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.

Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls. I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.

I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow, And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue. His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered "Oh!" As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.

Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock, Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside. The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock. He melted into what he felt. "O Jesus!" he cried.

Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat. His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick, His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.

Look, I'm not a hateful person or anything—I believe we should all live and let live. But lately, I've been having a real problem with these homosexuals. You see, just about wherever I go these days, one of them approaches me and starts sucking my cock.

Take last Sunday, for instance, when I casually struck up a conversation with this guy in the health-club locker room. Nothing fruity, just a couple of fellas talking about their workout routines while enjoying a nice hot shower. The guy looked like a real man's man, too—big biceps, meaty thighs, thick neck. He didn't seem the least bit gay. At least not until he started sucking my cock, that is.

Where does this queer get the nerve to suck my cock? Did I look gay to him? Was I wearing a pink feather boa without realizing it? I don't recall the phrase, "Suck my cock" entering the conversation, and I don't have a sign around my neck that reads, "Please, You Homosexuals, Suck My Cock."

I've got nothing against homosexuals. Let them be free to do their gay thing in peace, I say. But when they start sucking my cock, I've got a real problem.

Then there was the time I was hiking through the woods and came across a rugged-looking, blond-haired man in his early 30s. He seemed straight enough to me while we were bathing in that mountain stream, but, before you know it, he's sucking my cock!

What is it with these homos? Can't they control their sexual urges? Aren't there enough gay cocks out there for them to suck on without them having to target normal people like me?

Believe me, I have no interest in getting my cock sucked by some queer. But try telling that to the guy at the beach club. Or the one at the video store. Or the one who catered my wedding. Or any of the countless other homos who've come on to me recently. All of them sucked my cock, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

I tell you, when a homosexual is sucking your cock, a lot of strange thoughts go through your head: How the hell did this happen? Where did this fairy ever get the idea that I was gay? And where did he get those fantastic boots?

It screws with your head at other times, too. Every time a man passes me on the street, I'm afraid he's going to grab me and drag me off to some bathroom to suck my cock. I've even started to visualize these repulsive cock-sucking episodes during the healthy, heterosexual marital relations I enjoy with my wife—even some that haven't actually happened, like the sweaty, post-game locker-room tryst with Vancouver Canucks forward Mark Messier that I can't seem to stop thinking about.

Things could be worse, I suppose. It could be women trying to suck my cock, which would be adultery and would make me feel tremendously guilty. As it is, I'm just angry and sickened. But, believe me, that's enough. I don't know what makes these homosexuals mistake me for a guy who wants his cock sucked, and, frankly, I don't want to know. I just wish there were some way to get them to stop.

I've tried all sorts of things, but it's all been to no avail. A few months back, I started wearing an intimidating-looking black leather thong with menacing metal studs in the hopes that it would frighten those faggots off, but it didn't work. In fact, it only seemed to encourage them. Then, I really started getting rough, slapping them around whenever they were sucking my cock, but that failed, too. Even pulling out of their mouths just before ejaculation and shooting sperm all over their face, chest, and hair seemed to have no effect. What do I have to do to get the message across to these swishes?

I swear, if these homosexuals don't take a hint and quit sucking my cock all the time, I'm going to have to resort to drastic measures—like maybe pinning them down to the cement floor of the loading dock with my powerful forearms and working my cock all the way up their butt so they understand loud and clear just how much I disapprove of their unwelcome advances. I mean, you can't get much more direct than that.

The donor must be healthy: The man must not have STDs (Sexually transmitted disease) or a blood borne contagious disease. He must not have had acute long term exposure to poisons, heavy metals, radiation or intravenous injections.

The receiver must not be allergic to semen, sensitive to testosterone or have cancer tumors that could contact concentrated ejaculate (due to prostaglandins). Swallowing semen three times a week or more does help prevent and fight cancer. source

Studie show that semen exposure reduces the risk of breast cancer "not less than 50%" source

University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine Department of Research Medicine source